


Till Your Heart's Just Hunger Again

by DelilahBlueEyes



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelilahBlueEyes/pseuds/DelilahBlueEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you cope with the loss of a loved one? Some resort to drugs, some resort to alcohol. The Doctor tries to lose himself in his adventures after the events at Bad Wolf Bay, but his dreams keep him bound up in his love for the one he lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Your Heart's Just Hunger Again

**Author's Note:**

> Written to make a friend cry. Because we have that kind of relationship.

_Maybe it’s the best part really, after you’ve parted._

Some part of him knows he is dreaming. Some small, logical, underused part of his brain is screaming at him to wake up; to resist the drugging pull of his dreams and claw his way to the surface of his mind until his eyes open.

_When it’s all just you again._

But he can’t. Because his dreams are full of dirty blond hair and eyes filled with melted chocolate and a widely beaming mouth smiling up at him. His dreams are filled with her.

_All the kisses, all the wanting._

His dreams are full to bursting with the smell of her (lavender shampoo she’d brought onto the Tardis when they stopped at her house once), the comforting weight of her whenever they’d embraced (she was the perfect size, small enough to lift, but no paper thin waif by any means) and the simple comfort of seeing that slow, tongue between her teeth smile (like the sun coming out on a grey day, that smile) that she saved for knowing he’d survived a dangerous situation.

_All the bliss._

There are other dreams as well. Dreams that leave him aching and lonely when he wakes. Dreams of the smooth line of skin inside the curve of her hip and the way it would twitch if he ran his fingers over it. The way her legs would twine around his hips and her fingers through his hair as they moved together. Her fingernails digging into the skin over his shoulder blades when she tipped over the edge into bliss.

_Has turned to memory. Memory so clear._

But the quiet moments are what kill him the most. The companionable, comfortable silence when he dreams of just holding her, stroking her hair or talking in a whisper to each other. The intimacy of just being together, no running to or from anything, no hurry. The worst are the mornings when he wakes from a dream of lying in a patch of apple grass (the artificial smell not enough to drown the blend of tea and warm human that clung to her) smiling foolishly at each other over their hands linked on her swollen belly as tiny feet kicks merrily at their palms. Those are the mornings when he is the most frantic to tangle himself up in something, anything to escape the imagined memory of her lips brushing across his.

_So present._

Sometimes the dreams linger in his mind all day, drifting through all of his actions like cobwebs waving in the corner of a doorway. He jokes and he runs and he finds a way to save the day but always, he is shadowed by the fantasy of her. She dogs his steps day and night. Every once in a while he will freeze up, stop completely and shut his eyes. Because for a moment he thinks he can smell lavender and chips.

_It’s as if your love is still there, at least for that morning hour._

He can feel himself beginning to wake up, to slip out of the comforting arms of his unconscious fantasizing and into the harsh light of reality. But he shrugs deeper into the dream instead of away. He imagines that the warmth of his bed sheets against his skin is generated by another body that is just far enough away if he stretches up one arm he’ll be able to twine his fingers through that fragrant mass of hair. If he just reaches up…

_Till the memory recedes._

Vworrrp. VWORRRP. VWORRRRP.

The sound jerks him half out of bed, his stomach muscles contracting so hard that it makes him feel a bit sick. He swings his feet to the floor and leans his elbows on his knees for a moment, his spiked heart rate dropping slightly as the noise fades momentarily.

_Till that once warm presence is only a phantom._

The vestiges of the dream feel like a hangover the way they cloud everything else, like a bad head cold that he can’t quite bring himself to regret if it’s the only way to see her so vividly. The engine flares up again and he bounds out of the bed, throwing on his overcoat over his pajamas and heading toward the control room at a fast clip, rushing toward trouble and away from her. Away from the, for once, real memory that was pushing painfully against his heart. The tear choked way she had whispered that she loved him, and the way the beach and waves of Bad Wolf Bay around him faded back to the bronze studded wall of the Tardis control room. How he was alone. How he is alone. It’s almost a relief to see the smoke issuing through the doorway to greet him.

_Till your heart’s just hunger again._


End file.
